Hi, I was the guy at the party with the flesh colored dildo peeking out of my breast pocket

You probably remember me from Josiah’s party last Saturday at Round Table. I was the guy who put down four slices of supreme and about a dozen garlic knots in under five minutes.

Though you may remember me better as the guy who had the flesh colored dildo peeking out of his breast pocket.

Just to clear things up, it was more of a “I’d rather have it and not need it than need it than not have it” type of situation, and I do realize now that the chances of needing a flesh colored dildo at a 3rd grader’s pizza party (that I wasn’t invited to) were pretty slim, but I never thought that bringing it would lead to me being known as “the guy at the party with the flesh colored dildo peeking out of his breast pocket.”

“The guy who could really put down the pizza,” absolutely.

“The last guy to leave the restroom before it was discovered that the sink had been inexplicably ripped from the wall,” maybe.

But “the guy at the party with the flesh colored dildo peeking out of his breast pocket?” No way. That was such a small part of who I am and who I was at the party. In fact, after Craig told me that I shouldn’t have come because it was a kid’s party, and because he doesn’t know me that well outside of work, I was fully ready to be “the guy who shouldn’t have been there.” What I’ve been relegated to is simply unfair.

Please stop referring to me as “the guy at the party with the flesh colored dildo peeking out of his breast pocket” or I’ll kill Josiah.